


Oxfords

by wouldgraham



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, Domestic Fluff, Drabble, Established Relationship, Foot Fetish, Human Furniture, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Power Play, Rating May Change, Shoe Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27311149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wouldgraham/pseuds/wouldgraham
Summary: Will worked swiftly and Hannibal almost praised him. The sound of the shoe brush was roughly exquisite, the bristles of it evening out the polish on the smooth surface of the shoe. The calm, yet audible puffing of his hitching breathes from the titillation—the enticement of being on his knees polishing his husband’s shoes, the conscience of giving up power.The engagement in worship.Will Graham polishes his husband's shoes.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 1
Kudos: 62





	Oxfords

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [Liv](https://www.twitter.com/VSZERO88) for the prompt!

Sometimes, when Hannibal missed the alarm, Will would wake up first and cook breakfast for his husband.

The delights might not be as exquisite as Hannibal’s, but he can assure you that they were still edible. The usual American breakfast: a pair of medium sausages, a bacon ham and a fried egg. What could possibly go wrong?

Perhaps it would be the nagging of his husband, distasteful of the grease from the frying. He would still eat them, nevertheless. Will had always been a good housewife.

And a good slave too.

Hannibal watched how his lithe fingers brushed along the semi-brogues of his oxford with a cloth beneath. Kneeling, his husband had taken out the black polish out of their wardrobe and had since then been massaging the leather of his shoes in a skilful circular motion. Among their heed, Hannibal could notice his bashful arousal, through the flushed and sweating face of his as he twitched and sniffed on the smell of the polish sticking to the leather of his Testoni.

Silence remained between them. A slave should only open his voice when being asked, and Hannibal wouldn’t say anything—not anything unnecessary.

Will worked swiftly and Hannibal almost praised him. The sound of the shoe brush was roughly exquisite, the bristles of it evening out the polish on the smooth surface of the shoe. The calm, yet audible puffing of his hitching breathes from the titillation—the enticement of being on his knees polishing his husband’s shoes, the conscience of giving up power.

The engagement in worship.

It probably was superficial; just a play they indulge themselves in occasionally.

As Will applied the wax, he could then feel beneath his fingertips the bumps of his husband’s sole patterns, thick and clean. Hannibal was relaxing, resting his feet in the cup of Will’s palms. He didn’t mind nor did it matter much. He was delightful to serve, as always.

His husband kicked him a little bit once done, whilst avoiding smearing his polished shoe. Will stumbled, almost dropping the wax and cloth in his grip and dirty the floor, but he quickly collected himself. The gesture was simple and he knew what his husband wanted. Neither would he want to enrage his matter with such a trivial mistake as to forget his place. He was yet allowed to get up.

After putting the wax and cloth inside the box, Will bent down on his knees, sanctioning his husband to continue using him as a footrest. On his back, this time.

Often, they change dynamics in the middle of their play.

His gaze was fixated on the marble floor of their living room. Will could only hear the sound of the pages parted; Hannibal picking up the crumpled paper of this morning’s news. Hannibal's shanks weighed an annoying pressure on Will's back. Neither of them seemed to care. For a moment—a long one—they stayed at that position.

Maybe the clock would have struck nine o'clock in the morning that Will received another harsh kick, making him falter and tumble down the floor, almost bumping to the armchair behind him. It was time Hannibal got off to work.

Will watched his handiwork through the glistening tip of Hannibal's oxfords against the lighting of their living room. The shine decorated each of his steps and taps, right towards the door. He beheld his heels disappearing behind the oakwood door.

Hannibal left, just like that—without exchanging words. After all, furniture cannot speak.

His husband would come back at six.


End file.
